


Not Fear but Falling

by SylvanWitch



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Oral Fixation, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 03:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19898995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: Danny imagines Steve's mouth would be as talented as the rest of him.





	Not Fear but Falling

Sometimes, when Steve smiles, he looks so young that Danny has to squelch his paternal, protective urge, knowing both that Steve would not appreciate being mothered by his partner and that such behavior would conflict with Danny’s other driving urge around Steve, which is to drop him to his knees and shove a cock into that soft, red mouth.

Danny imagines Steve’s mouth would be as talented as the rest of him—athletic, flexible, with a stamina born of his SEAL training, a prodigious ability to hold his breath, and no gag reflex to speak of.

Since he spends a lot more time fantasizing about Steve’s mouth than he does paying attention to the words that come out of it, Danny is startled when his partner says, “Blow me.”

It’s a good thing Steve is (of course) driving because if it had been Danny behind the wheel when Steve made that offer, they’d both be in the hospital or dead right now.

Instead, Danny’s mouth is gaping like he’s waiting for Steve to do the honors with his own cock, and Steve is smirking that smug, high-school-jock smile that Danny both hates and also wants to fuck off his face.

Danny, admittedly, may have an aggression issue.

“Nice,” Danny manages, going for disapproval, though the censure in it is weak, and he catches Steve’s look out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” Steve says, distracted, and then, “No, not you,” which is when Danny realizes Steve’s not talking to him at all but whoever’s on the other end of the phone line.

Man, he needs some sleep. How’d he miss hearing the phone? And, more importantly, who’s Steve inviting to engage in oral sodomy with him?

Steve laughs, then, a loose, happy sound Danny doesn’t hear enough of, and jealousy punches him in the throat and leaves him with a sour taste on the back of his tongue.

The rest of the conversation—the side of it Danny can hear—does nothing to take the bad taste out of his mouth.

“Alright, man, I gotta go. Catch you later? Yeah, alright. Six. Usual place? Of course, you’re buying! Asshole.” 

“Friend of yours?” Danny asks, breath driven out of him by the smile Steve’s still wearing.

“Yeah, guy I know from the team.”

Great, another SEAL. Exactly how many the hell are there of them on a single team, anyway? Jesus, how they get anything done in a stealthy manner with so many of them tiptoeing around is beyond him, but hey, he’s not a military man, as Steve has, on several occasions, pointed out. What does he know about strategy?

“Sounds like more than that,” Danny says before he can police his own mouth.

That wipes the easy smile off Steve’s face, and Danny is instantly sorry for being a dick.

“You jealous, Danny?” There’s an edge to the question, behind the lame attempt to lighten the mood in the car, and it pisses Danny off because they’ve run these lines before, and he knows he’s expected to say, “No, I’m not jealous,” with something like outrage, but he’s tired of the games and the stupid deflection and the ghosts of Steve’s past who keep showing up in the flesh to wreck their fragile happiness, so Danny says, “Yeah, maybe a little.”

Later, Danny will consider that he should probably commend Steve for the crafty bit of offensive driving he manages, going from seventy in the passing lane to stopped in a cloud of shoulder dust and rubber smoke on the side of the Pali highway in about three seconds flat.

“What the hell, Steve?” Danny shouts, but that’s all he gets out because his mouth is full of Steve’s tongue after that.

There’s nothing gentle or nuanced in this kiss: It’s a full-on frontal assault, complete with biting—which hurts but also, who knew pain like that was wired directly to his dick? 

Danny is breathless, heart beating in the back of his throat like it’s trying to crawl out of his mouth, except it’s a sound instead, a kind of desperate animal noise that he is appalled to realize is coming from himself.

Steve isn’t appalled, though, judging by the way he makes his own noise, a sort of aborted grunt, and surges closer, which shouldn’t be possible by the laws of nature and the interior design of the American sportscar, but Danny’s not really in a position to consider the physics just then.

  
He’s not in the position to get laid, either, which is the only thing the scant oxygen left in his brain—and the rush of blood to his _other_ brain—is thinking about. Who the fuck thought buying a Camaro was a good idea anyway? 

Steve’s big hands are bracketing his face, holding him in place, and Danny discovers that at some point he’s wrapped his hands around Steve’s wrists like they’re the only thing keeping him anchored.

Steve’s tendons flex beneath Danny’s hands and fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing yet—Steve’s hands, the strength of his wrists, the leashed power in him.

Danny wrenches his mouth away, gasps, “Ste-eve,” trying to marshal enough brainpower to protest that they’re on the shoulder of a highway, engine still idling, traffic whizzing by.

But if Steve cares about their privacy, or lack thereof, he shows no sign of it, because his answer to Danny’s admittedly weak protest is to pull one of his wrists out of Danny’s grip so he can cup Danny’s package through his pants.

Danny spreads his legs instinctively even as the shock of it catches up with him, and he says, “Hey!” meaning to remind Steve of their currently extremely not-private locale, when Steve growls, “Fuck,” into Danny’s ear, and Danny says, “Yes!”

Time stops.

You know, people say that all the time—time stands still, everything freezes, whatever—but except for the heaving of Steve’s chest inches from Danny’s face and the fine tremor in Steve’s hand where it’s cradling Danny’s cock through his pants, there’s no movement, not even the rocking of the chassis as a truck thunders past.

It’s like the world is holding its breath waiting for the occupants of this car to come to their senses.

Then Steve says, “Yes,” right back at him, and presses a long, hard kiss to Danny’s temple before resuming his seat and returning the car to the road like some sort of goddamn ninja transporter, and Danny can’t figure out whether to laugh or cry or come in his pants.

He’s expecting awkward silence, darted side-glances, diffidence, and eventual back-pedaling. That’s the way it goes with them—one or the other lights a match, there’s a conflagration, shit gets said, and then they pretend it never happened.

So, Danny is surprised when Steve pulls up in front of the McGarrett house, parks, and turns the car off.

As he listens to the engine tick, Danny wonders if there’s symbolism there—super-heated metal cooling down.

Then Steve puts his hand on Danny’s thigh—not his knee, nothing demure or supportive in the touch. This is unmistakable territory-claiming, and the weight and heat of Steve’s hand there brings him from half-hard to full-flag so fast it makes him light-headed.

“If you’re going to say no, now’s the time,” Steve says.

Danny turns his head far enough to examine Steve’s profile for clues. Maybe Steve’s hoping Danny will nope out.

Fuck that.

He guides Steve’s hand a little north.

“Does that feel like a ‘no’?” he asks.

Steve makes that muffled half-grunt, and Danny watches with fascination as Steve colors and licks his lips.

Nerves or lust?

“Hey,” Danny says, wanting to be sure. 

Steve’s face turns toward him, eyes dark with arousal, lips red from their earlier make-out session. That tongue ghosts across his lower lip again, and it’s Danny’s turn to make an abortive sound.

“God, your mouth,” he manages, and once again he’s being tongue-fucked in the cramped front seat of his car.

This time, however, there’s a convenient bed only a couple hundred yards away, and it’s Danny grabbing Steve’s cock this time, just to focus his scattered attention.

“Inside. Bed. Now,” he orders, and Steve breathes out audibly, heat gusting across Danny’s face, and is out of the car and around to Danny’s side before Danny can register what’s happening.

  
Then, his partner, Navy SEAL, super-ninja, badass, take-no-prisoners McGarrett, hands Danny out of the car like he’s something precious, and once again, Danny isn’t sure whether to laugh at the ridiculousness of the gesture, cry at being looked at like he’s the last, best thing Steve ever wants to see, or come in his pants from how hot Steve is when he’s vulnerable and wanting.

There’s another stereotypical moment when they get inside and Danny finds himself shoved up against the closed door with Steve’s knee between his thighs and his tongue digging for tonsils in his mouth.

They hit all the tropes on the way up the stairs—stumbling, incoherent, shed clothing like foolish pride scattered behind them.

They’re naked when they make it to Steve’s bed, and Danny wishes this were one of those times when he has super-human stamina, but the truth is, Steve’s cock against his own, Steve’s weight bearing him down against the mattress, Steve’s big, callused hands on his belly, in his hair—Steve’s mouth, God that mouth!—everywhere…

They’re sliding together, sticky with each other’s come, in moments, and Steve is laughing, an intimate, wild sound Danny wants to hear for the rest of his life—an observation he’s going to keep to himself, thank you very much.

Then that mouth, kiss-fucked, red as the proverbial roses, is sucking a kiss into his throat and murmuring words Danny’s betting none of his SEAL team buddies have ever heard from Steve.

“Oh, hey,” he says, remembering. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting your friend?”

A muffled response comes from the region of Danny’s chest just before a hot, wet mouth fastens over one of his nipples.

“Gah!” Danny says, eloquently, and then he moans, a long, drawn-out sound he’d be embarrassed about if Steve’s spooge weren’t drying in his belly hair.

Danny tugs on Steve’s hair only reluctantly, not really wanting to stop his downward trajectory but also both realistic about his refractory period and worried about getting this right.

Steve looks up at him, mouth wet and impossibly red and curled into a trademark smirk that would, on other occasions, be annoying but which is, at this very moment, somewhat mitigated by the smear of come Steve has on his chin.

“This isn’t a one-off, right, babe?” Danny asks.

Steve’s beautiful eyes cloud, the telltale red Danny has politely ignored a couple of times leaking into them. 

“No, Danny,” Steve answers, looking stricken. “No.”

“Okay, then,” Danny says. “You should probably be aware that I’m not eighteen anymore, so it’s going to take my— _mmm_ —body a little while to get with the program you’ve got going here. But far be it from me to distract you from your— _unh_ —mission.”

This time, the smile is wide and wolfish, and Steve’s only answer is to lick a broad stripe from Danny’s bellybutton to his breastbone.

“Got it,” Steve answers, resuming his exploration.

Much— _much_ —later, sweaty, spooge-covered, and so sated that he thinks his bones might have melted, with Steve sprawled half over him, one freakishly long arm holding him down, one ridiculously muscular leg nestled between his two, ceiling fan moving the scent of sex over them in sluggish waves, Danny whispers, “I love you, you know,” taking a risk, feeling like he’s just jumped the Camaro onto a freighter—terrified, weightless, waiting for the crash.

And then Steve uses the mouth that started it all to say something important: “I know. I love you, too.”

And Danny’s weightless for a new reason that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with falling.


End file.
